


Élevé

by PeopleWillTalk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Anal Sex, Because apparently I am incapable of writing anything without a dash of feelings being added, Bottom John, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Top Sherlock, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21593626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleWillTalk/pseuds/PeopleWillTalk
Summary: John loves that his boyfriend is a ballet dancer. He loves to watch him dance, loves to see Sherlock lost in his own world when he performs. An added bonus is that he very much loves the strength and agility that comes with Sherlock's line of work...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 208





	Élevé

**Author's Note:**

> My first pwp and published porn. I have written fic before but am lowkey nervous to publish this on my usual account so this is just an experiment to see if I am actually any good at it.

Sherlock is beautiful when he dances.

John has witnessed it more times than he can count, both in rehearsals and on stage - the elegant, gravity-defying leaps, the graceful turns, the slow, gentle movements that make dizzying athletic feats seem effortless. And yet it never grew old, never became anything less than extraordinary. Now, as he watches Sherlock dance on stage with baited breath, tucked away in the dark audience in front of the stage, he feels his chest expand a hundred times over with love and admiration, not caring in the slightest that he is grinning like a lunatic for no one’s benefit but his own, hidden from Sherlock’s sight.

(Also, he won’t lie - seeing Sherlock dance like this, watching the flexing of his thighs and calves through his skin-tight costume, muscles rippling with exertion, his skin glowing with sweat, not to mention the shamelessly defined shape of his arse in those tights, did inspire secondary, far more lustful thoughts than mere admiration, leaving his mouth dry and his cheeks warm. He can’t be blamed; he knows Sherlock’s body as well as his own, knows its capabilities and its limits, the softness and hard edges, his weight on top of him and beneath him and surrounding him. He’s also very aware of the fact that they haven’t had sex in over two weeks, given how busy Sherlock has been, with no time to focus on anything except rest and sustenance and practising between shows. To many couples, that might not be much, but for them, it is utter torture.)

Sherlock does the final steps of his routine, a pirouette, John thinks, that seems to go on forever. It gets faster and faster until Sherlock seems propelled by nothing but sheer force of will on the very tips of his toes. In rehearsal, he sometimes trips over at this point. John holds his breath in anticipation, but - nothing. No trips, no dizziness, just pure, ingrained perfection. Sherlock holds his final pose, frozen on his knees, his chest rising and falling as slowly and calmly as if he were asleep and hadn’t just been dancing for over the last hour. The lights go down, and the audience is shocked into silence.

By the time the lights come up again for the final bows, the applause is deafening. As Sherlock runs up to the front of the stage, no one is as loud or enthusiastic as John, who whistles and claps until his hands are sore. Sherlock bows, and as he does so, catches John’s eye and winks. Just for him. God, John adores him.

(He wonders briefly if he can actually see him, or if he simply had John’s seat number memorised and aimed there. Neither option would surprise him)

As the audience pile out of the theatre, John pushes against the current of people, away from the exit sign, until he finds the door: **Backstage, Cast Members Only.** Security let him in anyway; after four years of dating Sherlock, coming to the opening and closing night of every performance, John’s face is as engraved into their memories as the star of the show himself. Besides, no one would dare argue with Sherlock, unless they wanted a scathingly blunt deduction thrown at them about failing marriages or secret illegitimate family members.

He comes to Sherlock’s dressing room door and enters, finding the dancer sat at his mirror, out of his costume and in his dressing-gown, wiping off his stage make-up. (John has requested a few times that he leaves it on, the black mascara and eyeliner that brings out the pale blue of his eyes, the bronzer that sharpens his cheekbones, making his features somehow more… other-world-y. Ethereal. Sherlock refuses every time, insisting that after two hours of dancing and sweating, the makeup only becomes a nuisance that makes his skin feel grotty.) Sherlock looks up at him and grins. “What did you think?”

“Spectacular. As always.” John leans down and kisses him, which Sherlock meets halfway, smiling giddily against his lips from the adrenaline of his performance. “How did you think it went?”

“There’s always room for improvement, as you know. I felt I could have landed a little better on that leap in the first half, and I could have lifted Sofia higher, but- “

“Oh, hush, you. You were perfect and you know it.” Sherlock smiles and his cheeks turn pink, even with the absence of blusher. “Everyone loved it. You heard the audience.”

“Self-criticism comes natural to me, you know that. I wouldn’t be at the level of skill and discipline I am today without it.”

“Well, for once, give yourself a night off, eh?” John tucks back a stray, frizzy curl behind Sherlock’s ear, who in turn purrs and leans into the gentle touch. “It’s your last performance of this show. Celebrate. Enjoy yourself.” 

“I suppose I shall. Speaking of which…” Sherlock bounds out of his chair, almost with a leap, and retrieves from the other corner of the dressing room a bottle of champagne, cold and coated with condensation from the ice bucket. “Courtesy of Mycroft, as an apology for missing the final performance.”

“Ah.” John takes the bottle from Sherlock to admire the label. Mycroft is many things, but cheap certainly isn’t one of them. Guilty, perhaps, for his negligence of his little brother in recent years, or simply showing off that he has a stable, long term career that allows him to afford such luxuries, unlike the unpredictability of performing. “Where is he this time?”

“Romania.”

“Well, then. It would certainly be a shame to let this go to waste. Don’t suppose you have any glasses in here?”

“If it’s all the same to you, John, I’d rather forgo the champagne for now,” Sherlock steps forward, places his hand around John’s and lowers the bottle away from John. He leans forwards, so his lips were next to John’s ear, breathing hot beside him. “I’d quite like to get dressed and get home as soon as possible.” John’s head snaps up at that, Sherlock’s deep, velvety growl triggering something base and primal in him, low in his abdomen. Sherlock’s eyes are dark, twinkling mischievously. John swallows. 

“Oh. Are you - uh - tired?” Always good to check. It doesn’t take long for Sherlock’s exhaustion to catch up with him, normally. Sex is both a routine and a blessing after final performances. 

“Nope,” Sherlock grins. “Not tired at all.”

~

As soon as they reach 221b, John finds himself slammed against the living room wall and snogged within an inch of his life by one very eager, borderline desperate, ballet dancer. Distantly, he notices the champagne bottle slip from his hand’s grasp and onto the carpeted floor with a low ‘thunk’, but right now, he couldn’t care less, expensive champagne be damned, even if it doesn’t remain intact. 

He feels overwhelmed by him; his wrists pinned above his head by Sherlock’s larger hands, Sherlock’s muscular chest against his own, Sherlock’s thigh between his denim-clad legs, his tongue licking possessively into John’s mouth, sending a thrill down his spine and pooling low in his stomach. He feels the wall against his back, the slight ache of a bruise on the back of his head and his back from the first collision with the wall. He doesn’t mind. Not in the slightest. He delights in this, surrendering to Sherlock’s will and letting himself be claimed. 

(He will complain tomorrow, about the bruising and pains, but they will be empty words.)

John breaks away from Sherlock’s lips, who then immediately turns his attention to John’s neck and jawline, kissing and sucking bruises there with undivided enthusiasm. John manages to gather his wits enough to moan out, “like this. I want you to fuck me like this. Against this wall.” 

He feels Sherlock grin against his throat. “You don’t want to go to the bedroom?”

“You know the answer to that, damn you.” 

Sherlock growls, a low, satisfied purr that travels straight to John’s cock. “So worked up already? We only left the theatre twenty minutes ago. Or have you been working yourself up for longer?”

Longer, definitely longer. From the moment Sherlock stepped out on stage in those tights of his, while he showed off his talents without shame, when he commanded the attention of the whole room at the slightest movement, John felt himself fall in love with him all over again. The time for telling him this will be later, when John feels capable of speech. “I don’t care. Just fuck me, you prick.”

Sherlock turns John around his chest pressed up against the wall, undoes his jeans and pulls them and his underwear down so they’re around his ankles, which John awkwardly steps out of and kicks away, while at the same time taking off his shirt and throwing it to the side. He can’t see anything in this position, so he waits with bated breath for the soft ‘click’ of the lube being opened, of the cool, slick touch of Sherlock’s fingers to prepare him. Luckily, he doesn’t need to wait long. 

(Observation: Sherlock didn’t need to leave his side for very long to retrieve the lube. Deduction: lube is stashed down the side of the sofa, or underneath magazines. Conclusion: Sherlock is leaving lube in the communal area of the flat for guests/Mrs Hudson/clients to see. Needs to be addressed at a later date. For now, John is very, very grateful for it.)

He gasps as the first finger enters him, stretching him for the first time in far too long. Sherlock kisses the back of his neck. “Slower?” How Sherlock could speak so calmly, touch him with such tenderness and caution while still being so worked up, John had no idea.

“Absolutely not. Keep going.”

He did just that. More lube, another finger, stretching him, preparing him. John spread his legs, leaned his weight against the wall to accommodate more of him. If had it his way, preparation would be quick, perfunctory, a means to an end. But Sherlock was nothing if not a perfectionist, rocking his fingers slowly in and out of him, patiently waiting for John’s body to adjust, then adding another, and searching, searching -

“Oh god!” John moans as Sherlock finds his prostate, rendering him desperate and making his cock leak against the wall. (God, he hopes they won’t leave a stain.)

“Alright?”

“I won’t be if you keep doing that. I swear to God, Sherlock, if you don’t fuck me before I come - “

“Relax, John.” Sherlock kisses John’s shoulder. “You’ve already been remarkably patient through my eight-performance weeks. Surely you can wait a little longer?”

John moans, rocking back against Sherlock’s fingers. “Fine. A little longer. Can you at least take your clothes off?” He can feel the soft cotton of Sherlock’s post-show t-shirt and jogging bottoms against his bare skin, doing absolutely nothing to hide the erection currently bumping against John’s arse. _Can’t be too comfortable, that._

“In a little bit, maybe. I quite like it like this.” John can understand why. There’s a vulnerability in being the only one without clothes, a display of trust and submission that makes him shiver with anticipation (though that could be the flat’s dodgy heating). “Besides, seeing as I did such a good performance tonight, don’t I deserve to have things my way, just this once?”

“‘Just this once’, my arse.” Spoilt brat. But who is John to deny him? Especially when Sherlock’s voice goes like _that_ , rich and velvety, with the mystery and eloquence of a Bond villain. _Now there’s an idea. Another time, perhaps..._ And especially when his fingers are doing _that..._

“Good. Now turn around.”

John obeys, and immediately Sherlock’s mouth meets his, frantic and eager so that John can do nothing but melt into it. One hand squeezes John’s arse, drawing him in close, while the other fumbles with his jogging bottoms and underwear to pull out his erection. His hands then go down to the back of John’s thighs and he lifts him off the ground, the shock of it making John give out a small yelp and giggle. His legs bracket Sherlock’s waist of their own accord, his arms locked tightly around his neck.

He grins giddily. “God. That’s really fucking hot, you know that right? You, carrying me.”

“Oh, I know,” Sherlock replies smugly, and with that, he slowly presses into him. John throws his head back against the wall with a shuddering exhale, while Sherlock moans softly in his ear. 

“Alright?”

John nods. “You? I know I’m no ballerina, and I’ve put on a few pounds -”

“Shut up. You’re fine. You feel wonderful.” To prove his point, Sherlock starts to move, rocking into him while still holding John up, it seemed, with little-to-no effort. And, almost as soon as it starts, something snaps, and finally, Sherlock is fucking him properly, and John is helpless to do anything except clutch tightly onto him and allow himself to drown in the feeling of it.

He knows Sherlock is in a similar mindset, overwhelmed with sensory input, from the rough snapping of his hips and the soft ‘uh - uh - uh’ that matches his rhythm. His eyes are dark as he glances down at their joint bodies, looks into John’s eyes, takes in the sight of him with equal parts lust and wonder and _love,_ like he can’t believe his luck.

“Me too,” John murmurs hoarsely, and kisses him. 

Even as they kiss, Sherlock doesn’t stop; he has the musician’s internalised tempo, the scientist’s expertise and knowledge of John’s anatomy, the dancer’s single-minded precision and strength. John can’t remember a time before sex with Sherlock, and he certainly doesn’t want to imagine a time after. It can never get better than this.

They both come almost simultaneously in a symphony of moans, shaking and clinging fast to one another, almost definitely ruining Sherlock’s post-performance clothes but neither of them caring. They stay like that for a while, coming down from their high, breathing heavily, the cool breeze from the open living room window clinging to the sweat on their skin. 

~

Afterwards, when they’ve both collapsed into bed, exhausted and aching and completely unwilling to leave each other’s arms, Sherlock breaks the silence. “I have to retire soon.”

John scoffs. “What? You’re thirty-seven.”

“Exactly. In ballet terms, I’m ancient. My thirty-six-year-old colleague is retiring this year. And my leg hurts even more than usual. I won’t be able to walk properly tomorrow. I know it.”

“Well that’ll make two of us,” John jokes gently, making Sherlock smile in spite of himself. “So what if someone else is retiring? You can do it in your own time. You love dancing. You were brilliant tonight.”

Sherlock sighs softly, hiding his face in John’s neck. “I stumbled.”

“Didn’t notice.”

“I did,” Sherlock mumbles. “I’ve spent my entire life training. I’ve isolated myself for so many years for this, denied myself friendships and relationships in pursuit of my career, bruised and blistered myself trying to perfect every dance move. And now it’s all slipping away far too quickly.” 

“Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe you can find a new passion to pursue.”

Sherlock hums. “You won’t mind? I know my dancing has a certain… appeal to you.”

“ _You_ have an appeal to me. You could work a desk job and I’d still be crazy for you.” Sherlock pulls a repulsed face at the idea, making John laugh. “Well, don’t give up on ballet too soon, alright? Give yourself time to think about it. And whatever you decide, I’ll be here to support you.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” John kisses the crown of Sherlock’s head. “That’s what boyfriends do. We hold each other up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos and comments below!


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